Wyatt Sparks

The fog rolls under us as we walk. Every ten feet is a new ash tray. We come upon deers braying in a dumpy forest. Trees among us turn themselves into single pitch lighting rods. Mechanically cleaned of arms and legs, silly foliage left on the floor. The deers in front have agony. The deers have red eye acetate.

            Why aren’t they timid?

You ask and I tell you that there is nothing to be afraid of except hunger and practically anything will eat anything.

You ask if they are worth eating.

            No No No. Call them meat and flesh instead of food. Theirs is as toxic as tears. Sadness permeates in every cell like an acid.

You call out.

Look at your weak little legs! Look at the lack of grass and any green! Why are you doing this?

They call back

the engines inside us are enough. we don’t desire anything except to turn off the humm m which bangs and says EATS S S LEEP S S SEX it is the same spinning as anywhere maybe this isn’t enough? but why the hell not? we will find out so ssoon

in a kind of omniscience

their caravan edges off

damn those deers were smart